Far Flies the Eagle (2 page)

They were not defeated, he had said, and watched the confusion and resentment on Novossiltsov's face as he agreed to the lie. He knew the truth, he and the other members of Alexander's staff who had been engaged in the war, and they were blaming the Czar for having tried to direct the army himself. They were also blaming him for making peace instead of trying to redeem his honour, blinded by anger and pride to the fact that they were practically disarmed, their troops in utter confusion, and that their enemy was the foremost strategist in the world.

They were unused to defeat; the tradition of Catherine the Great and Russian invincibility would not admit it. They wanted to fight, to be annihilated if necessary, rather than return without glory; they would never forgive Alexander for arranging this meeting, and he knew it. The peace party in Russia who had opposed the war in the first place would never forgive him either, for having proved them right.

“Novossiltsov,” he said.

The Colonel turned to him. “Sire?”

“I had to make peace while we were still in a position of some strength, do you understand? He would have invaded Russia and no one could have stopped him. He wants peace now, my friend, so whatever his terms I shall be able to safeguard the interests of Russia, you may be certain of that.”

“I know that, Sire,” the Colonel said quickly. “Believe me, it's just that I resent …”

“You resent Austerlitz and Friedland, Novossiltsov. And so do I. I had to ride for my life from the battlefield; do you think I shall ever forget that?”

The Colonel scowled. “None of us will, Sire.”

Alexander smiled sadly.

“You will have to trust me, my friend. Trust me to do what is best for Russia.”

As he spoke he knew that not even Novossiltsov was really loyal to him any longer. And if he, who had served him devotedly for years, was not to be trusted, then his danger was very great. If failure in war were followed by failure at the Conference, then Alexander knew that he would lose his throne and his life when he returned to Petersburg.

He straightened a jewelled order that hung from his collar. His father had worn it, he remembered; his father had become Napoleon's ally too, but he had been murdered before the alliance could take effect. And that murder had indirectly resulted in the war.

The news of the execution of the Duc D'Enghien had profoundly shocked the Courts of Europe, and not least the Imperial family of St. Petersburg whose record was crimson with murders and Palace revolution. Alexander expressed his horror at the act, and promptly received a reply reminding him that France had not presumed to interfere when the Emperor Paul was murdered.…

From that moment he had determined to overthrow Napoleon, and it was for this reason he had persuaded Austria and Prussia to embark on the war which had ruined them. His anger had not abated, it was as bitter on the raft at Tilsit as it was when he first sent his troops into action against the French, but like all his deep emotions, it was hidden. He disguised his hatred for Bonaparte from the moment it became necessary to make peace with him; if the act was to convince his enemy it must also convince everyone else, and all his life Alexander had played different rôles for the benefit of different people. The loving grandson for Catherine, and this was easy because she was the only member of his family for whom he felt the least affection. The dutiful son for his father, but his father was as shrewd in some things as he was mad in others, and his father never believed him for a moment.… And the unwilling conspirator in the plot to dethrone Paul; that rôle was followed by the reluctant ruler whose only wish was to reform the abuses of his father's reign and then abdicate. Within six years of his accession he had gained a reputation for Liberalism and personal mildness which practically obliterated the circumstances of Paul's death. The projected reforms were discussed at length, but never put into practice; he would have liked to improve the governmental system to prove to himself and the world that he had justified his means by the end, but he quickly realized the impossibility of abolishing either serfdom or political corruption. While he abandoned the plan he continued to talk, firing the young men who surrounded him with ideals as splendid as they were untenable. His great friend Adam Czartorisky was an enthusiast for the most extreme plans, seeing in every suggestion a chance of securing freedom for his native Poland.

Alexander liked Adam, he admired his courage and unselfishness; he listened to many of his counsels, rejecting the idealistic and accepting the practical, with as little intention of restoring the kingdom of Poland as he had of freeing the serfs.

He found the Poles a fascinating people; Adam was handsome, fierily romantic and quixotic enough to fall in love with the Czarina Elizabeth, Alexander's wife.

And the man who could do that was an idealist indeed, he thought coldly. Thank God for it, thank God for Adam's hot blood and his own quick wits. The scandal of his wife's passion for her own lady-in-waiting was killed by the scandal of her affair with Adam, and the danger of domestic upheaval passed. He had never forgiven Elizabeth for the adolescent abnormality or admitted that his own neglect and coldness were responsible.

And the Czar's sexual indifference which had tormented his young wife was completely cured by a countrywoman of Adam Czartorisky, the beautiful, spirited Marie Naryshkin, wife of one of the wealthiest nobles in Russia.

Oh, God, he thought suddenly, God, how I long to see her, how I long for all this to be over.…

“The French are approaching, Sire.”

Alexander turned to Novossiltsov. “We will embark at once.”

The French boats were tying up at the side and the blast of French trumpets sounded as the Emperor Napoleon landed.

A moment later Alexander stepped on to the raft and walked towards him. They came within a few paces of each other and then the Czar held out his hand.

“He's so small,” he thought, while his brilliant smile greeted Napoleon. “So small and yet not ridiculous.… He has terrible eyes.”

“I hope we meet as friends, Sire, rather than enemies,” he said simply.

Bonaparte looked up at the tall figure of the Czar; his height was accentuated by the brilliant uniform of the Preobrozhensky Guards laced with gold, and the sash of the order of St. Andrew crossed his chest; a Maltese Cross studded with enormous diamonds hung from his collar. His blond head was uncovered and he bowed slightly. Napoleon decided that it was impossible for any man who looked like that to be intelligent as well.

He also smiled, and his grim, sunburnt face relaxed.

“My only enemies are the English, Sire,” he answered.

Nominally Russia's ally, England had confined her support to promises and conserved her own strength while the three military powers exhausted themselves in the conflict.

Alexander's face became cold and grave.

“They are Russia's enemies too.”

“Then,” Napoleon replied firmly, “we are at peace.” Side by side they walked to the Pavilion and disappeared inside the room reserved for them. No one else was present at the meeting.

The door closed behind them, and the officers of the Russian Guard looked across the Pavilion at the French. Alexander might shake hands with an upstart who had defeated them in the field; he might smile and show friendship, but they would not. The Russian nobles turned their backs on the members of the French entourage and began to talk among themselves.

“Rabble,” Count Ouvarov snapped. “An army of parvenus led by a parvenu. Did you hear what was said about England? He wants us to fight England with him!”

“The Czar will refuse,” Novossiltsov said. “You underestimate him.”

“I hope so,” Ouvarov answered. “I don't like any of this. I don't like this fawning on these French vermin; I don't like this peace.… And a lot of others will feel as I do. For his own sake, I hope the Czar knows what he's doing; if Napoleon doesn't take his throne from him his own people might!”

“You talk treason,” Novossiltsov whispered. “Who would replace him, his brother Constantine? Do you want another Paul or worse.…”

“I'm no traitor, and you know it. I conspired to put Alexander in power, but I'd not keep him there to make us vassals of France. As for a successor, he has a sister, Novossiltsov, and Russia prospers under women. If he goes too far, there's always the Grand Duchess Catherine.”

CHAPTER TWO

The Imperial family were gathered in the Dowager Empress's apartments in the Summer Palace at St. Petersburg; it was early afternoon and the big salon was bright with sunshine. Sunshine poured through the long windows to the despair of the Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna, who was sure it would fade her magnificent Aubusson carpet.

She sat in a gilt fauteuil embroidering, wishing that she dared order her daughter Catherine away from the window and have the blinds lowered. Her younger son, the Grand Duke Constantine, paced up and down behind her chair, scowling and muttering to himself. It was quite useless to tell him to sit down; he was always restless and vile-tempered whenever his brother Alexander was near, and Alexander was expected any moment. That was the reason for the unusual family gathering; Alexander was returning from Tilsit, and his mother, his younger brother, his sister and his wife were waiting to welcome him.

The Grand Duchess Catherine stood with her back to them, staring out of the window. She was tall and gracefully built with beautiful hands and perfect shoulders, exposed by the high-waisted white satin dress. Two miniatures surrounded by large diamonds were pinned to her breast, the portraits of her brother the Czar Alexander and of her grandmother the great Empress Catherine. There were pearls in her black hair and round her narrow throat. Catherine the Great had worn them once, and her granddaughter had besought Alexander to give them to her. After all, as Catherine coolly pointed out, the pearls had never suited his wife anyway.

The striking beauty of her face, with its straight features and slanting black eyes was spoilt by an expression of sullen arrogance. She was just eighteen years old.

In a corner of the room the Empress Consort of Russia sat with her hands in her lap, staring into space. She was delicate featured and very fair; her mother-in-law's summons had interrupted the long letter she was writing to her own mother:

“He is coming back to-day, dear Mama, and I'm afraid the situation here is very dangerous. I shall be able to tell you very little because I am not in his confidence as you know. He seldom speaks to me and naturally I cannot approach him. In spite of the pain I have suffered and still suffer from his indifference, and the presence of that creature Naryshkin at Court, I have the most loyal and affectionate feelings towards him. The Court is outraged by this pact with Napoleon Bonaparte, and his sister, of whom I have written before, is the centre of intrigue against him.…”

She glanced across at the Dowager Empress who smiled vaguely at her. She had never been unkind to Elizabeth Alexeievna, merely abrupt and inclined to ignore her, which was only natural since her own husband set the example, but she had never been cruel. Unlike the other two.… The young Empress looked towards her brother-in-law Constantine and shuddered. Hideous, a coward, unbelievably cruel and degenerate in his habits, he was more like a wild beast than a man. He was short, thick set, with the flat features of the Czar Paul and the same jerky mannerisms; his own family acknowledged him to be a sadistic maniac.

The Grand Duchess Catherine Pavlovna was as fierce as her brother, but she was cunning, and shrewd. There was an animal quality about her, Elizabeth thought—not the bestiality of Constantine, but a primitive, predatory force allied to a violent temper and an inflexible will. Her whole family were afraid of her, even the monstrous Constantine retreated, snarling and cursing, when she opposed him; only Alexander pandered to her out of love.

Once, years ago, Elizabeth had been jealous of that love, watched Catherine pouting, and wheedling her own way with Alexander, until it suddenly occurred to Elizabeth that she was grown up, beautiful, and that her manner with her brother was almost flirtation.…

But the jealousy, with most of her feelings, was quite dead. She dreaded Catherine's vicious tongue, flinched under snubs and mockery, because in spite of everything she was still sensitive. But the hurt was only on the surface. Nothing could really touch her now. The ending of her love affair with Adam Czartorisky had reduced her to a silent shell, listlessly following Alexander from one State residence to another, living and sleeping alone, month after month and year after year, the unwanted, childless wife whom everyone said should be divorced.

He had made her commit adultery with Adam. She could remember his eyes, so cold and deadly with anger as they looked at her, the disgust and implacability in his face when he advised her that her dear friend Countess Golovine would not attend her any more. He preferred her to accommodate Prince Adam Czartorisky instead. The alternative, he told her quietly, was a scandal of such magnitude that the Czar Paul would undoubtedly imprison all of them.

Paul's prudery was notorious, almost as notorious as his hatred of his son; if the rumours of Elizabeth's strange tendencies reached him, he would certainly blame Alexander. Since it wasn't possible to banish all her ladies-in-waiting to prevent her finding a successor to the Countess, he ordered her to distract herself with Adam.

“The Prince is devoted to me, Madame,” he had said. “I have assured him that you are in love with him. His loyalty to me and his chivalry should be sufficient.”

She had never forgotten those words, they echoed through the first weeks of her liaison with Adam, until his insistence that he loved her deadened them. He had loved her, and all the frustrated passion of her nature responded to him. They had been intensely happy, oblivious of the upheaval of Paul's murder and Alexander's accession.